Let's Talk About Poetry
by Hisa-Ai
Summary: Arthur never intended to write poetry at any point during his life. But, for Merlin, he's willing to try anything once.


**So do you guys remember the scene in "The Death Song Of Uther Pendragon," I think it was, where Leon comes across Arthur and Merlin and was all, "What cha guys doing out here in this dark, empty corridor all alone together in the middle of the night?" and Merlin was just like, "I'm teaching him some poetry," and Arthur was all, "I... _love_ poetry," and then Leon just had this look on his face like he thought they were doing something else _entirely_ up in there? Yeah, well, I was thinking about that scene a week or so ago, sat down to write, and this is what came out.**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Merlin or poetry or anything of the such.

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><p><strong>Title:<br>**_Let's Talk About Poetry_

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><p><strong>Fic:<strong>

Merlin found comfort in poetry. The words and rhythm and the ease it filled him with when he was overcome with joy or sorrow or heartache or the dull ache of memories from a childhood long passed or a future yet to be lived soothed him in a way he could never quite put into his own words.

Sitting up in his modest chambers, tugging the bits of poetry he had managed to acquire over the years—a single book and many single sheets that he kept bundled together—out from under his bed, reading with heavy eyes against dim lighting, Merlin was comforted, content. No matter the stress or hardships of the day, no matter how exhausted or under-appreciated he was feeling, when he read the words written in pain and joy by lives he had never known...

He was at ease with the world. Great destiny or not, poetry was all it took to soothe Merlin's soul most nights.

He had been tempted to try his own hand at writing poetry many times over the years, but he had just been a boy from a poor farming village when the urge would strike. He hadn't had much to say. And even if he had, no one would have listened, not in a village where you worked from sun-up to sun-down and reading was a rarity, a privilege not afforded to many.

But then he came to Camelot and he knew love and loss and pain and heartache and one night it was all too much for the same old words to convey. He needed new words rearranged and reconstructed to match the needs of a boy in too deep and with too much to lose.

So he pulled out parchment and quill and spent the latter part of the night scratching his words and pain into the paper.

The end result was no where near as eloquent or neat as the words he'd read over hundreds of times already were, but they were _his_ words and they made him feel better, so there was no other option.

After that first night of staying up too late to let his feelings be known in his own writing, it became an addiction for him. He was a manservant by day, poet-in-training by night. And it made his destiny and his duties that much easier to deal with, the laws that much easier to live by.

He kept the poems he wrote, dated and signed, tucked away with his magic books—later on, he moved all his poetry to be kept under the floorboards with his spell-books—only pulling them out to look over when he was too exhausted to write but still needed a fix.

And, he found one night as he looked back through the stack, it was rather unsettling how the tone had shifted. How he started out writing about loss and stress and pain and blood and destiny and wound up writing about love and heartbreak and lust and pining and a certain blond _prat_ he knew all too well.

He was the writer of some of the sappiest poetry he had ever read. If _that_ wasn't a secret that wanted better protection than his secret of magic, then he didn't know what was.

~!~!~

Merlin was hiding something; Arthur was sure of it. He just needed to figure out what it was and _why_ he was keeping it from him.

And he knew the only way to figure it out was to keep Merlin busy enough to give him time to figure it out without raising his suspicions. So, he sent Merlin off on some impossible task meant to keep him busy one afternoon. He saw in Merlin's eyes that he _knew_ it was busy work meant to keep him away for a while, but he left with a grumble to do it anyway, without much reason to deny the request.

After he was sure Merlin was gone to do the task set out for him, Arthur wasted no time in making a bee-link for Gaius' chambers, making sure the old physician was out before stalking into Merlin's room and closing the door swiftly behind himself.

As this wasn't the first time Arthur had searched Merlin's room to satiate his personal curiosity, he knew where everything was hidden and wasted no time in looking under the bed with the staff that had seemingly appeared from nowhere, as far as Arthur was concerned, under the floorboards with Merlin's magic books. He was sure that, whatever it was Merlin had to hide, it, or evidence pointing towards whatever it was, would be hidden with the rest of his secrets.

He pulled everything out of the floor when he noticed the pile was thicker than the last time he'd checked on it. Merlin couldn't have gotten any more spell books—not in Camelot, anyway—so it piqued his interest right away.

He riffled through the stack. After he sat aside the magic books and stray scraps of parchment with research and incantations scribbled down on them, he was left holding a curious looking book with a clasp on it, pieces of parchment sticking out of it at various odd angles.

Even more curious, he popped open the metal clasp and flipped through the book that had quill marks scattered through-out, the pages yellowed with age in some places, corners folded down for future returns in others.

He let his eyes quickly scan the pages, taking in the moving and heartbreaking words. He found, within a few minutes, that these were some of the same words he had been made to study growing up; though the years had wiped many of the words from his memory, there were others still that had stuck with him through-out, their affect on him so strong that they never quite left him, the reminder before him resonating deep within and stirring an odd, familiar feeling that was sweet and melancholy all at once.

Poetry. Merlin was reading _poetry_.

Arthur's lips turned up fondly. Of course he was reading poetry; he was smart enough to understand it, clever enough to feel it. It wasn't something to be ashamed of or to hide—why, Arthur himself still read some that lined the royal libary from time-to-time when he was feeling particularly cultured or lost—so why was it tucked away with his magic books, as though it were a secret that would spell out his death should anyone else find out about it? Why was he hiding it at all?

When Arthur turned the page again as he chewed over his thoughts, one of the pages not quite _in_ the book fell out; he picked up up, eyes scanning over the familiar handwriting instantly. There, scribbled in Merlin's hand, was a poem about loss and pain, and maybe it wasn't the _best_ poem in the world, but it was in _Merlin's_ hand and these were _Merlin's_ words, so he looked favorably upon it nonetheless.

He flipped through the rest of the book then, took out every sheet of paper that was merely stuck in, and found that Merlin's words danced across all of them.

He hesitated for a moment once he had all the poems gathered together in a neat stack, ready—_begging—_to be read; going through Merlin's things because he was curious about what he might be hiding from Arthur—and okay, maybe he was _a bit_ worried about him, as well—was one thing, but to read what he now knew to be Merlin's private thoughts and feelings... Was that crossing a line of some sort?

Arthur, though, _had_ already gone through Merlin's room without his permission, without his knowledge, so what difference would it really make now whether he read them or not?

With the impatience of a child, he read through the pile a couple of times: quickly to get through them and see what was written there, and then once more, slower this time to fully digest what was _really_ written.

In the pages he held between his hands—and _yes_, he assured himself, it was _most definitely_ Merlin's handwriting he was looking at—Arthur found their, his and Merlin's, adventures, their memories together, captured in word, in feeling, on each piece of parchment his eyes scanned over.

The poems became fairly well-written as obvious years went by in the writings, and their tone shifted slowly, subtly, surely. They started out all pain and loss and death and fear and destiny—thankfully, there was not a _single_ mention of magic, which was good on Merlin; the magic books were explainable, but Merlin's own words incriminating himself as a sorcerer would mean he would need to flee the city, if the writings were ever found by anyone other than Arthur—and slowly became about a different kind of pain and lust and love and _unrequited_ love and heartbreak.

There was no name mentioned in the later poems—the ones about love and the sort of _want_ Arthur only ever let himself feel about _Merlin_ when he was tucked far away from his manservant himself—much to Arthur's dismay, but there were plenty of hints that he shortly put together. Blond hair, blue eyes, royal prat...

That _stupid_ sorcerer...

It might have been some of the most girlish poetry Arthur had ever read, but it was written by his Merlin about _him, _he was sure of it.

Now, how to deal with things without letting on that he'd been going through Merlin's things...

He shoved the poetry back into the book, put everything back under the floorboards, made sure everything was where he had found it, then left the room, a plan already forming in his racing mind against what his pounding heart, surging blood, wanted him to do right that second.

~!~!~

Exactly one week after finding out about Merlin's dirty little secret, Arthur's plan was, while not quite a _plan_, in so many words, ready to go regardless.

He had acquired a book of some of the best poetry there was, full of poems he was almost _sure_ Merlin had never read, as it was _quite_ the expensive book. Tucked between the pages, there was badly written poetry from Arthur's hand about Merlin, about love and loss and pain and whatever else there might be to write about. He was king, damnit, not an artisan or a writer, but... he was sure Merlin would appreciate the gesture at least. Maybe.

Pacing in front of Merlin the morning he decided to finally go through with it, he listed off the chores he was to have finished by that afternoon, and added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and since I assume you know how to _read_," he turned to his desk, pretending not to notice Merlin's eyeroll at the thinly veiled insult.

He picked up the book prepared for the occasion, ornate and so royal looking that Arthur was surprised just _anyone_ was allowed to leaf through it when it clearly belonged to gentle fingers...

Arthur turned back to Merlin, dropped the book, heavy with what was between its pages, into his flattened palms with more force than necessary.

"The king coming to visit next week gifted me with this book of... _poetry,_" he made a well-practiced face of disgust before continuing. "So I need you to read it, and get back to me with any worth talking about with him. Don't want him thinking we're uncultured around here," he gave Merlin a tight, challenging smile.

For his credit, Merlin didn't say anything smart in response, merely turned the book over, ran his fingers along the embroidery, along the spine, the metal clasp on the front. There was a hunger in his eyes then, and Arthur knew that, if he stopped by his chambers in thirty minutes time, Merlin would be completing his chores while laid sprawled on his bed or floor, devouring the new words while his magic took care of everything else.

Arthur almost wanted to be there when Merlin discovered what he had done but, for all the bravery he showed on the battlefield, that was something he feared he could not do.

"And when you're finished," Arthur turned on his heel. "Feel free to keep it; I've no use for such a thing—_really_." He closed his eyes, picturing the wide grin on Merlin's face as he mockingly—or _not_-so-mockingly—thanked him for the gesture, and felt himself smile in return.

He dismissed Merlin a moment later, pretending to be busy with inspecting his sword until the door closed and he relaxed, collapsing into his chair.

Now, all he could do was wait, and pray that the gesture didn't make him seem like a fool.

~!~!~

Merlin didn't know _how_ Arthur knew about his love of poetry, but, from the way he'd given him the book, obviously lying about where it had come from—Merlin _knew_ the king who was coming in to visit and he was _not_ the sort to give poetry as a gift—he _knew,_ and Merlin _knew_ he _knew_, he just didn't know _how_.

It was possible he'd gone through Merlin's room, but he kept his poetry with his magic books—surely, _that_ would have warranted more attention than his love of poetry.

Still, he was rather grateful for the gift; it was full of words he had never read, feelings he had never felt. It was enticing enough that he rushed through the chores around the castle, then holed himself up in his room with the rest of them and the book.

As Arthur's armor was shining itself, sword sharpening, chainmail polishing, he cracked the book open, breathed in the smell, flipped through it slowly, taking everything in it _in._ He leafed through the pages, just skimming for the time being, as he wasn't sure how much time he would have to read through it _now._

After a minute of skimming and flipping, the most curious thing happened: one of the pages fell out. He felt a surge of panic for a moment as he picked it up but, when his eyes were met with Arthur's penmenship, his name scrawled at the bottom, he grinned instead, rolling his eyes as realization hit not a moment later.

So.

The stupid prat _had_ gone through his things after all.

~!~!~

It was another three days after Arthur had given Merlin the book filled with brilliant—and not-so-brilliant—poetry before anything else was said on the subject. Arthur was _sure_ Merlin was doing it on purpose—_of course_ he was; Arthur had gone through his things and he had to have known about it by now—but he couldn't bring it up without verbally confirming any suspicions he must have had.

So he decided to wait him out. Merlin had that stupid look about him anyway, the one that said he was having a hard time keeping something to himself, that said he was going to spill whatever he was keeping to himself any moment to anyone who would listen, so Arthur was sure he could outlast him.

And he did. Just barely.

It was as Arthur was taking his breakfast, chewing thoughtfully over some sausage as he tried to remember what he needed to have done by the end of the day. He was going to ask Merlin, he had decided, by the end of the meal, what he had thought of the poetry that he had given to him. It needed to be brought up already, because Arthur didn't know how much longer he could stand it.

Lucky for him, then, half-way into his meal, Merlin plopped down across from him, the gifted book in his hands. He had it opened within the minute, a sly grin on his face as he leafed through the pages, intent and focus written on his face.

"What are you _doing?_" Arthur asked around his sausage, trying to seem casual against his pounding heart. He had expected passing comments and a proper discussion about it, sure, but he never thought Merlin would actually pull the book out in front of him. When he thought about it, though, he _really_ should have expected such a stunt from _Merlin_, of all people.

"You wanted to discuss some of this—so the visiting king won't think us uncultured swine?" Merlin looked up, his expression infuriatingly sly and knowing.

"I never said _swine_." Arthur corrected. He laid his fork down on his plate, pushed it to the side of the table. They were doing this _now_, it appeared, so he probably wouldn't eat much anyway.

"No, but you might as well have."

"_Mer_lin—"

"Do you want my help or not?" he demanded. "Because it's obvious the only uncultured swine around here is you—"

"I _never_ said—"

"Might as well have," Merlin grinned again, tapping the page he was looking down at, and, dear God, was that _actually_ one of the poems Arthur had written? Why was Merlin choosing to torture him like this? Oh, he would pay for this later. _Oh_ would he ever _pay_. "Because this—oh _this_, Arthur," he tapped the paper again, turned it around on the table to face Arthur. "Has got to be some of the _worst_ poetry I have ever read in my life. But," he added abruptly, holding up a finger to silence Arthur before he could interrupt. "I can help you with that, if you'll let me."

Arthur swallowed, lips turning up slightly at the implications. "And how do you intend to do _that?_"

"Well," he made an exaggerated, thoughtful gesture before he grinned, "Obviously you _really_ need to be feeling something to write good poetry, to make your reader feel it as well, and I have got to say, my lord, I wasn't feeling much when I read this. Well," he shrugged. "Other than second-hand embarrassment, of course."

"You want to feel something, then?" Arthur asked, challenging now, his embarrassment sliding away with the idea he was suddenly hit with. He rose, pushing his chair back with an ugly scraping sound that he heard again when Merlin did the same a moment later, still grinning.

"Sort of the point of poetry, isn't it?"

"I'll make you feel something, all right, I'll make you feel _a lot_ of things."

"What does that even—"

Arthur reached across the table, over the poetry, in the middle of Merlin's sentence, grabbed him by his neckerchief, yanked him half-across the table, and kissed him full on the mouth, the table cutting into both of their stomachs uncomfortably but bearably as he pulled Merlin closer still—or rather, as close as the table would allow. Merlin sighed into him, hands banging about on the table until they came up to grasp Arthur awkwardly, melting as much as was allowed into the kiss.

"That make you _feel_ anything, _Mer_lin?" Arthur asked triumphantly when he pulled away, panting slightly.

"Stupid prat." Merlin hissed, shaking his head slightly, though Arthur still held him by the necker. "Still mad you went through my things," he added, almost scoffing at the thought.

"And _I'm_ still mad you never told me about your magic." Arthur scoffed right back, though _anger_ was furthest from what he was feeling at the moment.

"Not mad enough to confront me about it, though. No, _you'd_ rather talk about _poetry_. Girl's petticoat." Merlin snorted.

"_Shut up._" Arthur kissed him again, cupping his face with one hand, dragging him around the table by his neckerchief with the other until they met without a barrier between them. Merlin's hands came up almost instantly, knotting themselves through Arthur's hair, his mouth writing a stanza of gibberish against Arthur's that he had no problem _feeling_.

Poetry, Arthur decided then, would have to be a subject they discussed much more often.

**Fin.**

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><p><strong>Fun fact: While I was writing this, I had to take several unscheduled breaks because I was over-come with the urge to write Merlin-inspired poetry.<strong>

**Also, I'm really obsessed with the idea of Arthur not giving two shits about Merlin's magic. I'm just so in love with fics where Arthur finds out about Merlin's magic and is just all, "Really? Okay, now go sharpen my sword, polish my armor, muck out the stables, fetch my food, and scrub the floors." Or ones where it turns out he's known about it all along and is just all, "Oh so we're talking about it now? Good; now I can give you even more chores to do and you won't have an excuse to be such an incompetent fool about it." **

**I just love it all so much right now. So. A fic where Arthur cares more about the sappy poetry Merlin is writing about him than about his magic is kind of right up my alley at the moment.**

**Always,  
>Hisa-Ai.<strong>


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